Sherlock Holmes & The Lost Boys
by Silvre Musgrave
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Time. When some of the Irregulars go missing, Holmes calls on the assistance of Watson and "Mr. Danny Adams" to help track them down.
1. Missing

Chapter One: Missing

The Time Machine lay in pieces at the bottom of the Thames.

Christine Andrews had moved back into her old rooms at Baker Street, and an agreement was formed between she, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Firstly, it was understood that Christine could not fairly exist. She wasn't supposed to be born for another eighty five years; there could be no record of her in any of Watson's accounts - at least the published ones. The doctor assured her that any records would be locked in his box at Cox & Co., and the relationship between her and Holmes would be kept more or less a secret from all media.

Secondly, due to the fact that Holmes and Christine from very different worlds so to speak, and neither wished to push the other, they decided to take their relationship at a slow pace.

This was reinforced by the fact that Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to act as chaperone to Christine, since she had no living relatives. It was a role that Mrs. Hudson took very seriously - Christine and Holmes could barely be alone together for five minutes without the landlady popping in to make sure there were "no patty-fingers, if you please."

In the few months she had been in 1896, Christine had secured a job as a typist - at Scotland Yard of all places - and worked several hours a week. She enjoyed it, although she was appalled at the difference in pay, and not having an "undo" or "delete" key on her typewriter irked her at times.

When she'd first been hired, things had been extremely busy and Scotland Yard had needed a second typist to pick up some of the slack, but now, in the month of May, things were slowing down, and she didn't have to work as many hours.

Presently, she sat in the consulting room at 221B, drinking a cup of tea and reading the paper.

"I can't believe I haven't heard any talk about this at the station," she said aloud.

"What's that, Miss Andrews?" Dr. Watson said through his pipe.

Holmes didn't say anything; he was engrossed in a monologue he'd written a few years prior, making notes and scratching things out with an ink pen.

"These children that have gone missing." She held up the paper. "I doubt you can read the article from there, it's so tiny." She got up from her chair and handed the paper to the doctor. "This would have been front page news in the future, and I haven't heard a word from the police about it."

Watson took his pipe out of his mouth and read, "Two more children, a Brandon and Thomas Kirk have been reported missing. These boys live in…" He fell silent and scanned the rest of the article, after which he handed it back to her. "They're street urchins."

She put a hand on her hip. "So?"

"The police don't concern themselves with disappearance of a few missing street boys, Miss Andrews," Holmes said, raising his grey eyes to hers.

She turned to him, appalled. "Well they _should!_ I can't believe this! They're _children_."

"I'm sure they'll turn up," Watson said encouragingly. "Lots of children go missing and it turns out they ran away from home for a few days. I'm sure they're fine."

- - -

Sam Wiggins awoke and rubbed his grubby hands into his eyelids. Scratching his touseled head, he rolled off of the bundle of blankets piled atop a mat that served as his bed. "Mornin' mum," he yawned to the woman bending over the small fireplace. He nudged the three sleeping forms next to him - his three sisters.

The woman turned, bouncing a baby on her hip. She was young, but worn with work and family care. "Wash your face, Sam."

"Alright, mum." Wiggins trotted out the back door the rain bucket and splashed his face with the cold water, wiping his face dry with his sleeves.

"There's not much to go around this morning, Sam," his mother said quietly, setting the bowls of porridge on the table. "We didn't sell many flowers yesterday."

Wiggins took a look at his sleepy sisters and his mother and the baby. "You know mum, I'm not really hungry. You can have mine!" Before she could protest, he kissed her cheek and ran out the door.

He didn't slow until he was out of yelling range, just in case his mother tried to call him back. Truth was, he was very hungry. But his mum and the baby needed that food more than he did - he had other means of getting nourishment. _Let's see,_ he thought. _Today is…Wednesday. I went to the O'Briens yesterday for some corned beef. Maybe the Schultz's will have some bread for me this morning._ He ran down the next street, turned a couple of corners and knocked on the green-painted door of a building that housed a German couple.

The plump, rosy-faced Frau Schultz answered. "Ah, Wiggins!" she cried in her heavy German accent, clapping her hands. "How glad I am to be seeing you! Stairs are _schmutzig!_" She said, gesturing to her porch in agitation. "You sweep and I give breakfast?" She inquired.

"Yes, ma'am!" Wiggins nodded eagerly.

"_Gut!_" She smiled widely and handed Wiggins a wicker broom.

He immediately began working, smiling. _Not just bread, but a full-blown breakfast! _

In no time at all, the stairs and surrounding walk leading up to the green door were spotless, and he knocked again on the entrance.

Frau Schultz clapped her hands again when she saw the work he'd done, and bustled him inside, where she gave him a two whole sausages and three biscuits. After eating, he saved one of the sausages and two of the biscuits in his only clean handkerchief and headed out the door.

"_Danke!"_ Frau Schultz said, patting him on the head.

"You're welcome! Good-bye, Mrs. Schultz! Thanks for the breakfast!"

"_Auf wiedersehen_, Wiggins! Be good boy!"

Before heading to the alley behind the manufacturer's on King Edward's Street where he usually met the rest of what Mr. Holmes called "the Irregulars," Wiggins stopped at home and gave his sisters the rest of his sausage and biscuits with stern instructions to be share them with the baby and mother.

Wiggins ran the blocks past Baker Street, towards the spires of St. Pauls, and at last he reached the alley. Five of his usual seven comrades were there, plus Charlie Simmons' sister, Maddie, who liked to tag along.

"Ello, lads!" He called, waving. They all looked up, smiling.

"Wiggins!"

"Hullo Wiggins!"

"Mornin'!"

"Wiggins," sandy-haired Miles Pilgrim laughed, "Patrick ate a bug!"

The seven-year-old Patrick pouted. "I did not! Billy, tell him I didn't."

"Don't be such a ninny, Patrick," Billy Gibson, his older brother said.

"I'm _not_!" Patrick said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Where's Bidder and Kelly?" Wiggins asked pudgy Timothy Holt, seating himself on an upturned barrel.

"Haven't seen 'em for a few days."

"Where've they gone to?"

Holt shrugged. "Don't know. Haven't seen 'em."

"I heard some boys down in Bethnal Green went missing," Maddie Simmons said, brushing her dirty blond hair out of her eyes.

"Ah, that's just talk," Pilgrim said, waving his hand.

"No it's not. My mum saw it in the paper."

"Ha, your mum can't read!"

"Can too!" Charlie snapped. "She's a lady, not like your mum-"

"That's enough. Remember wot I said, we don't talk about our mums," Wiggins said, jumping down from his barrel and making a fist. "Next guy wot talks about his or any other bloke's mum gets knocked down."

"Sorry, Wiggins."

"Hey Wiggins! Want to go to the beach and skip rocks?" Gibson asked suddenly.

"Yeah!" The argument already forgotten, Wiggins started running down the street in the direction of the docks.

"I want to go!" Maddie Simmons said.

"No girls!" Holt sneered over his shoulder, following Wiggins.

"But-"

"You can come, Maddie," her brother Charlie said. "But you gotta keep up! I'm not waiting behind for ya!"

In ten minutes they had reached a particular spot of beach along the Thames where they liked to skip stones. Each of them immediately began to seek out the smoothest and flattest stones they could find. Charlie Simmons reluctantly showed his sister how to skip, and everyone ducked as Patrick started unintentionally winging rocks in all directions.

"Watch what you're doing, Patrick!"

"Sorry, Billy."

Wiggins stifled a laugh and flung a rock into the surf. It bounced twice on the waves and disappeared below. He tossed out another, and another, until his supply was expended. Then he went and looked for more.

They'd have to find a new beach soon, he thought. This one was running out of good stones. The only ones left where the big ones that made a nice _choof _sound when you threw it in.

There, he spied one. A nice, perfectly smooth rock, flat, perfect for skipping. He reached down and pried it out of the bank and almost had it when he heard scuffling noises behind him. He turned, only to see three men grabbing Pilgrim, Holt and Billy Gibson.

"Oi!" Wiggins shouted. "Leave us alone, we didn't do nothin'!"

He ran up to one man to kick him in the shins, but Gibson cried out, "Look out, Wiggins!" Before he could do anything, he felt himself grabbed from behind and a cloth pressed to his face. He inhaled sharply, rapidly, trying to get away, but he suddenly felt sleepy, his legs going out from under him. His vision started to go dark, and before it faded away completely, he saw the rest of his lads getting grabbed, some of them already limp on the beach.

Faintly he heard Gibson yelling.

_A/N_

_I've returned!_

_**The O'Briens and the Schultz Family **__- For those of you who really know their Disney movies, this is in reference to Lady in the Tramp. These families are mentioned when the Tramp tells Lady about all his different "homes", right before they go to Tony's to eat spaghetti._

_**Schmutzig - **__means "dirty". I think you can figure out the other words. ;)_

"_**No Patty Fingers if You Please" **__- classic line from one my favourite movies, The Quiet Man._


	2. Irregularities

Chapter Two: Irregularities

Holmes walked out of the barber shop, having been overdue for a haircut, and began to head towards Baker Street. The wind was blowing, and he had nearly reached the intersection, when he spotted Miss Andrews across the street, walking from the opposite direction. Accompanying her was a young constable.

_Who is that man?_ Instead of greeting her as he normally would have done, he lingered in the shadow of a shop awning until they had passed. She was intently listening to the policeman, who was talking animatedly. The man made a wide gesture with one hand and she laughed.

Holmes' mouth unconsciously formed into a tight line and he strode across the street after them. He kept a fair distance behind the pair, studying them both. He couldn't hear what they said, but they looked comfortable in each other's company. They continued down Baker Street in conversation until the wind picked up and suddenly blew Miss Andrews' hat off, throwing it behind her.

Holmes managed to catch it before it landed in the street and handed it to Miss Andrews, who came trotting up to him.

"Oh! Thank you, Mr. Holmes. That's my favorite hat." She smiled winningly up at him, her face flushed by the exercise, and he felt his heart flutter.

"Good catch, sir!" The constable grinning, running up to them.

Holmes straightened into his best imitation of a lamppost.

"Mr. Holmes," Miss Andrews said, "This is Mr. Frederick Emerson. He works down the hall from me at the station."

The blue-eyed, blond-haired policeman smiled pleasantly at him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes, it's an honor, sir. I've heard a lot about the great work you do." He extended a hand.

"Have you." Holmes replied curtly. He took a look at Emerson's hand and shook it stiffly. "Good to meet you, Emerson. I will see Miss Andrews home." He offered his arm to her. Once she had taken it, he said "Good day," to Emerson and off they went.

"Er…good evening, Mr. Emerson! I will see you Friday!" Christine called over her shoulder.

When they were a block away, Christine took her arm out of Holmes' and said, "Were you following me?"

"No," he said shortly, looking straight ahead.

_Somehow I don't believe that,_ she thought, but decided not to voice the statement. "Well, you were very rude back there. Why did you act so coldly towards him?"

"I acted in no such way." he replied, averting his eyes.

"You did too. He was just walking me home; he lives further down the street. Listen, if you're--"

"Holmes!" Dr. Watson came half-running down the pavement.

"What is it, Watson?" Holmes asked, grateful their conversation had been interrupted.

"Telegram for you, old man. I think it's urgent." Watson handed Holmes the paper, which the detective quickly scanned. "Hello, Miss Andrews." the doctor said, turning to her.

"Hello, Watson. Is your leg feeling better?"

"Better than this morning. It was quite stiff-"

"No time for pleasantries, Watson!" Holmes cried. "Are you willing to accompany me on a case?"

"By all means - what, you mean _now_?"

"This very instant. Cab!" Holmes waved his walking stick at a four-wheeler coming their way.

"Well, all right. Save us some tea, Miss Andrews," Watson said apologetically.

"I will." Christine sighed and threw Holmes a half-smile. "We'll talk later," she said in a quiet voice. "Take care of yourself," she said pointedly, taking his hand and squeezing it.

Holmes looked down at her hand for a moment, then into her face. "I will." He tipped his hat slightly. Had they been alone, he would have embraced her. He hesitantly let her hand go.

She watched the two men climb into the cab, following it until it went out of sight, then turned back onto the path towards Baker Street. She looked up at the sky, shading her eyes from the sinking sun. It had to be almost five-o-clock. She walked quickly; on account of the wind, the air was steadily becoming colder. Although it was May, there was no telling what the temperature would be in a few hours. _I hope they aren't out too late._

She at last reached 221B and went inside, the aroma of baking pastry filling her senses. "Mmm. Smells heavenly, Mrs. Hudson."

"Thank you, dear," the call came back from the kitchen. "Do you know if the doctor managed to catch Mr. Holmes?"

"He did. They've gone off, I'm afraid."

"What?" Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen, her face red from the heat. She shook her head, smiling knowingly. "That's just like him. The poor doctor."

Christine laughed. "Oh, Dr. Watson could have refused, but he didn't."

"You'll never find a closer pair of friends," the landlady conceded and bustled back into the kitchen. "Well, I'll just set some of these pies aside. Are two enough, Miss Andrews?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Here, I'll take them if you'd like to bring up the tea."

"Here you are, I'll bring the tea up in a moment."

Christine took the tray of miniature pies up to the consulting room. Once she'd set them down, she took off her coat and hat and placed them on the stand in the hallway. Just as she was about to turn back into the room, she heard a frenzied ringing of the doorbell. She strode across the room to the window, but by the time she reached it, she heard the door slam open downstairs and Mrs. Hudson's angry cries, followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs.

"What on earth…" Christine said to herself, whirling on her heel.

"Mr. 'Olmes! Mr. 'Olmes!" young Patrick Gibson came catapulting into the room but stopped dead in his tracks when he realized the detective wasn't there.

"Patrick! What's wrong?"

Christine's gentle voice seemed to touch something within the child, and he suddenly burst out crying.

"Patrick!" Christine dropped to her knees beside him and pulled him into her arms. "It's all right. It's all right, sweetheart. Shhh."

He wailed and buried his face in her shoulder, looping his small arms about her neck.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, her red face losing its angry color as she saw the boy crying. "Whatever's the matter, lad?" she asked, kneeling down also.

"B-B-Billy!" he managed to get out, and dissolved into another set of sobs.

"Patrick, what about Billy?" Christine held him out in front of her. "What's happened?"

"They-they took him! They took all of them!"

As the child lowered his head onto her shoulder once more, Christine looked up into Mrs. Hudson's face, which, horrified, mirrored her own.

- - -

At nine o' clock that evening, the lock at 221B turned and an irritated detective and tired doctor entered, bringing with them a gust of cold air.

"Well that was a blasted waste of time," Holmes snapped, whipping off his gloves.

"Now Holmes," Watson said. "I know there wasn't much _to _the crime, but the man did appreciate your help."

"Yes, yes." Holmes said impatiently. "But give me riddles, puzzles! I long for mental—"

"Shh!"

Holmes made a slight ducking motion as if he'd been swiped at and looked up to the landing to see Christine with a finger to her lips.

"What's wrong?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm so glad you're home," she whispered, gliding down the stairs. Her face was drawn, and Holmes went forward to touch her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"Whatever's the matter?" Watson asked.

"It's Patrick -"

"Gibson?" Holmes asked sharply, letting go of her. He began to take off his coat.

"Yes. He's been here since a little after five." She placed her hand on his shoulder, causing him to freeze. "Something's happened to the Irregulars."

Holmes stared at her. "What?"

"They've been kidnapped."

_A/N_

_I apologize for the rather long wait and the shortness of this chapter. The next chapter should speed things up, though I'm not sure when I'll get it up. I'm starting to finish up at college, and this semester is going to be beastly, for lack of a better word. So I hope you like this chapter, and I'm sorry it's not longer._

_**Frederick Emerson: **__the name comes from a mix of Freddie Eynsford-Hill, who was played by the late, great Jeremy Brett in "My Fair Lady" and George Emerson, a character in the wonderful movie, "A Room with a View"_


	3. Far from Home

Chapter Three:

"Wiggins? Wiggins, wake up!"

Wiggins heard the voice as if it were coming to him through layers of blankets, but it seemed that one by one, the layers were being pulled away. Things were getting somewhat brighter, and the voice was getting louder.

"Wiggins?"

It was Maddie Simmons' voice. Wiggins opened his eyes slowly and groaned. There was a heaviness behind his eyelids, a sort of foggy weight. Must have been chloroform. He'd heard of plenty of people getting drugged by it, and killed or kidnapped- his eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet, only to stumble over and fall again. They were _moving_.

Wiggins looked around. It was dark, and they were inside a covered cart of some sort, with hay scattered below them. Nearby lay his fellows - Billy Gibson, Miles Pilgrim, Timmy Holt and Charlie Simmons - and two more boys and a girl he did not recognize.

"Gaw, me head," Wiggins whined, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of dull pain radiated from his eyes to the rest of his skull. After it had passed, he turned to Maddie. "You all right?" He knew she wasn't - she looked scared to death, and he couldn't say he blamed her - but he thought it right to ask.

She didn't move, but asked in a trembling voice, "What do we do, Wiggins?"

Wiggins scratched the back of his head and looked around again. It was best to find her something to do, to distract her. "You try and wake the others. I'll see if there's any way of gettin' out of here."

She nodded, glad to have a job, and shook her brother's shoulder. "Charlie…"

Wiggins rose unsteadily to his feet and walked around the cart. It was boarded in on all sides, and securely. With one well-aimed kick, he thrust his foot towards one of the planks. The resulting tremor radiated up his leg, causing him to grimace and fall to the floor.

He felt Maddie's eyes on him, and only rubbed his leg briefly before getting to his feet again. "I think I'll need some help if we want to knock these boards in," he said. He knelt down to Timmy Holt and patted the side of his face. "Holt. Holt, wake up. Come on, you." While still keeping an eye on Holt, he reached out with his foot and prodded Billy Gibson. "Come on, Gibson, we have to get out of here." He turned back to Holt and patted him harder, just short of smacking him. "Wake up, Holt!"

He was rewarded with the fluttering of Holt's eyelids. "Owwww…" he moaned, covering his eyes with his hands.

"It'll wear off."

"Wiggins? What happened?"

"We've been captured, I reckon."

"Who…who would want to capture us?" Simmons asked groggily, having just sat up. Maddie clung to his arm.

"I dunno. Help me with these boards. I don't really wanna find out."

- - -

"What do you mean, kidnapped?" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow at Christine.

"Exactly that," she said, moving closer to him. "Patrick said they were throwing stones by the Thames and three men started snatching them up and pressing cloths to their faces. Patrick was able to escape while some of the other boys held them off…poor thing," she said, glancing up towards the consulting room. "He's sleeping now." Her fingers went to grasp an old locket that hung around her neck, and she turned it fretfully. Her eyes came back to rest on Holmes'. "Who would do such a thing?" she whispered.

His face was as grim as she'd ever seen it. He raised his eyes to the floor above, and began to make his way upstairs. He brushed her cheek softly with his fingers as he passed. "I must hear the account from his own lips," he said quietly, and continued ascending.

Christine nodded and began to follow him. "Just be gentle, Mr. Holmes. Lord knows what he's been through."

"Was he hurt?" Watson asked beside her.

"No, I think he's all right physically. Mentally, I'm not so sure. He's only seven years old, and to see his brother and friends stolen away like that…."

"Don't worry. With Holmes on the case, they'll be back in their mothers' arms in no time," Watson said reassuringly, patting her hand.

Christine let go of her locket and nodded. "Yes, of course you're right." They made their way into the consulting room to find Holmes kneeling beside the sofa, gently tapping the boy's shoulder.

"Gibson."

The boy stirred underneath the blankets, then sat bolt upright when he saw the detective before him. "Mr. 'Olmes! They-they took my brother n' Wiggins and they went off but they distracted 'em n' I got away but they chased me n' -"

"Calm yourself, Gibson," Holmes interjected, placing a hand on the child's shoulder. Patrick's mouth snapped shut, though his lower lip trembled. "Calm yourself," the detective repeated, and waited until the boy had taken a few shaking breaths. "Now. You must tell me everything that happened, slowly. Leave nothing unsaid." Instead of taking his usual place in the chair across from the sofa, Holmes remained kneeling in front of the boy.

Christine quietly sank into a chair at the table, as not to distract Patrick, while Watson silently retrieved his commonplace book and a pencil.

"Go on," Holmes said.

"Yes sir," Patrick said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "We were at th' Thames-"

"Where?"

"Along Thames Street, a little ways from th' Tower."

"What, near Swandam Lane?"

"Yes sir."

"That's a most foul part of town," Watson said suddenly, looking up from his notebook to cast a concerned eye at the boy.

"There's good rocks there," Patrick replied, quite serious.

"Pray, continue." Holmes said rather sharply, and the boy's eyes were drawn to him again.

"Sorry, sir. We was down by th' Thames, throwin' stones, n' these men came outta nowhere!"

"Tell me what they looked like," Holmes said.

"Um…one was really big," Patrick said, stretching out his arms for effect. "He 'ad dark hair, a big nose n' wore a cap. He was big, but he was fast - like a boxer. 'Nother man - 'is name was Jasper - I heard the other man say it - he was a tall bloke, that one. He 'ad little, dark, mean eyes, a long nose n' _really_ long legs. He chased me, Mr. 'Olmes." He said quietly, looking down at his hands.

Watson reached over and patted the child's shoulder gently. "Go on, lad."

"There was one more - he was shorter, n' 'ad a scar on 'is cheek." He made a sweeping motion from the corner of his mouth up towards his ear. "Like 'is mouth got cut."

Holmes stood and began to pace the floor. "After these men came, what happened next?"

"They grabbed Pilgrim n' Simmons, and then Maddie. Wiggins tried to make 'em stop, but they got 'im too. Billy yelled at me to run, so I did." He hung his head, and a small tear dripped down his nose. "I jus' left 'em there."

Holmes stopped pacing a moment to look down at the boy. "It's the only way you could have helped them, Gibson," he said. "We _will _find them. Now, you said you were chased by this Jasper fellow."

The boy scrubbed at his eye with a dirty sleeve before Watson could offer a handkerchief and nodded. "He went after me, but I scarpered down Bush Lane and kept going to Cannon Street. He was fast, Mr. 'Olmes. But Wiggins taught me 'ow to 'ide really good. I turned a corner, n' I 'id in an ol' ware'ouse on Little Trinity Street. I was really quiet and 'id there for a long time, n' he looked n' looked, but he couldn't find me. Finally he left, but I still 'hid, just in case he came back. N' then I came 'ere."

"You didn't return home?"

"No sir," Patrick said, his eyes growing wide. "My father n' brother would be angry."

"Ah…well, Patrick. You've done well in coming to me." He glanced at the clock on the mantle over the fireplace. "It's much too late now, but tomorrow I would like you to take me to where your brother and the other boys were taken."

"Yes sir."

- - -

"Again!" Wiggins cried softly from his place on the floor of the wagon.

He and Pilgrim slammed their feet against the boards for the sixth time. They were finally rewarded with a splintering sound.

"You're doin' it!" Simmons said, clenching his fists in anticipation.

They kicked again, and a wide crack split the plank. "One more kick!" With a grunt and final surge of strength, the two boys thrust their worn shoes against the wood. The plank made a horrendous crackling noise and disappeared into the open air.

After waiting a few seconds to see if the driver stopped, Wiggins scrambled off his back and thrust his head through the opening. It must have been very late, for he could barely see anything. From the dim moonlight, all he could make out were the skeletal outlines of trees all around them. The loud sound of a river nearby filled his ears; he wondered that he hadn't noticed it before. One thing was for sure. He didn't recognize anything. No parts of London looked like this, and he hadn't been outside London enough to know where they could possibly be.

He peered down; they were on a rough dirt road that faded away into the distance. In front of them, the wagon was being pulled by a team of two horses. Ahead of their wagon were two men on horseback.

Wiggins pulled his head back inside. "There's the three of 'em. Two are up ahead; there's only one driving. We need to get out of here."

"I don't think we can fit through that little space, Wiggins," Maddie said worriedly, clinging to her brother's arm tighter.

"We have to try, Maddie. There's no tellin' what these blokes are gonna do to us. Here, I'll go first, just in case they hear. If something happen' to me, Simmons, you're in charge."

Simmons swallowed noticeably, but set his jaw and nodded. "Good luck, Wiggins."

"If I get clear, I want you all to follow, as quickly and quietly as you can. Got it? I'm goin' for the river. Keep headin' back the way we came, following the river. It'll eventually lead us back home."

"Good luck Wiggins."

"Careful Wiggins."

Maddie squeezed him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek, which he hurriedly wiped off. "Erm, thanks. Wish me luck, lads. Here I go -" Wiggins's sentence was cut short as he suddenly smacked his head on the side of the wagon.

They'd stopped.

There were sounds of hooves on gravel, and then the crunch of boots.

"Get back," Wiggins hissed, and they all gathered at the back end of the wagon.

The doors on the opposite end were unbolted and suddenly flung open. Two of the men stood there, one holding a lantern.

Wiggins blinked in the sudden light and stood protectively in front of the other boys and girls. "What do you want? We are we?"

"Pipe down, you little runt." The big man wearing a cap said. "Get out of the wagon."

"What's all this then?" the man with the scar on his cheek said, holding the lantern out to illuminate the inside of the wagon. It shone upon the broken plank. "Well look at that. They tried to break out, the little devils."

"Are they all still here?" another, reedier but harsher voice snapped. A horse walked into view, but all they could see were the rider's legs.

"Yeah," the big man answered, looking at them. "All nine of 'em."

"Good." The man dismounted from his horse, and walked into the lantern light. He was tall, with long legs. "You had all better file out of that wagon. Do what I say, or I'll flay you alive and throw you in the river." The lantern cast unnerving shadows on the man's face and lit up his small eyes unnaturally.

Wiggins looked at the children on either side of him and slowly walked forward and hopped down out of the wagon.

"Smart lad," the long-legged man said smugly, crossing his arms.

Wiggins helped the smaller ones out of the wagon, and they all stood together, holding on to each other's hands.

"All right, you lot. March."

Flanked by the big man on one side and the scarred man on the other, the children made their way past the wagon, until they suddenly found themselves at a great iron gate. The gate extended into a fence on either side, disappearing into the trees.

Beyond the gate was one of the biggest buildings Wiggins had ever seen. It was low and flat, with many chimneys still billowing smoke. A gigantic water wheel churned water beside the building.

The tall man, upon his horse again, trotted before them and gestured widely at the building and said darkly, "Welcome to Wheeler Mill, lads."

_**A/N**_

_AGGH, I'm so sorry this is taking so long to update. School's been absolutely crazy. I have at least one exam every week and I had three last week, three days in a row. But enough about me!_

_**Holmes and Christine **__- The scene where Holmes brushes against her cheek on the way up the stairs is reminiscent of how Holmes played with Violet Hunter's hair in Granada's version of COPP._

_**Swandam Lane **__- where the Bar of Gold was located in TWIS_

"_**This is a most foul part of town." **__- a line from my favorite adaptation of Dickens' A Christmas Carol, starring George C. Scott._

"_Pipe down, you little runt." - a line from Disney's 101 Dalmatians_

_Wheeler Mill - I need a sufficiently creepy name for the place. And I don't know why, but I was at the time, reminded of a villain from Baum's "Return to Oz" - The Wheelers. In the Disney movie, they seriously freaked me out when I was younger._


	4. Clues and Sleepless Nights

**Chapter Four: Clues and Sleepless Nights**

Holmes awoke the next morning, glad that for once, the weather had decided to stay on his side. It was bright and sunny - and no rain had fallen during the night that might have washed away vital clues by the dockyards.

After rushing into his clothes, he roused the sleeping Patrick Gibson from the sofa and sprinted up the stairs to wake Watson.

He smiled softly at the snoring doctor, his arms akimbo, one foot protruding from underneath the sheets.

"Watson," Holmes said quietly. When the doctor did not stir, he tickled the protruding foot with a gloved finger.

With a flailing of sheets, Watson awoke. "G-good heavens, Holmes," he said upon seeing the detective. "Did you have to do that?" He ran a hand over his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock," Holmes said brightly. "We must head to the docks and see what we can find."

"Oh…" Watson stared at the small clock on his bedside table and frowned. "Can't it wait until after breakfast?"

"No. We must go before they clues are destroyed. I would have preferred to go yesterday." With that, Holmes left the room.

Watson ran a hand over his face, and with a sigh, swung his legs over the side of the bed.

* * *

When Holmes re-entered the consulting room, he found Miss Andrews sitting at the table with Gibson. The boy was busy chewing a muffin, and did not notice the detective until he spoke.

"Miss Andrews? What are you doing up at this hour?"

"I knew you were going to get an early start, so I wanted to have something ready for you - or Watson, rather - to eat. And Patrick of course."

The child looked up at his name, his face covered in crumbs and jam.

Christine fought back a giggle and handed him a napkin as a yawning Watson walked into the room.

"Ah, Watson," Holmes said, leaping from his perch on the sofa arm. "Let us be off then." He whisked past the doctor, snatching his coat and hat off the stand as he went.

Watson turned to follow, but was tapped on the shoulder. A small parcel was pushed into his hands. Inside was a muffin and a slice of ham.

"For the road, doctor," Christine said. "A morning start requires some sort of nourishment."

"Thanks awfully," he said sincerely, smiling. "Come along, Mr. Gibson."

"Now, do as Mr. Holmes says, Patrick, and answer all his questions as best you can," Christine said, crouching down before him, "And don't you worry - he's going to make everything right." She gave him a tight squeeze and sent him down the hall, where Watson was waiting at the top of the stair.

* * *

Wiggins and the others kept close together as they were taken into another smaller building. The tall man, who called himself Finch - and don't you lot forget it - led them up a dark narrow stairway.

At the top was a dimly lit corridor, branching off in two directions. A stern faced crow-like woman with grey wiry hair, dressed in a high-necked black dress was waiting for them. She took the hands of Maddie Simmons and the other girl they did not know and began to lead them away.

"No!" Maddie said, yanking out of the crow-lady's grasp. "Charlie!"

The woman seized her by the arm, and Maddie began to cry. "Stop that noise my girl," the woman said threateningly, "Or I'll box your ears."

"It'll be all right, Maddie!" Charlie said encouragingly, though his eyes were frightened. "Go on, I'm sure I"ll see you tomorrow."

Maddie sniffed and reluctantly allowed herself to be led away, looking over her shoulder until they disappeared behind the door at the end of the hall.

Finch, with the large man, Kite at the rear, led the boys in the opposite direction. He opened the creaky ill-used door at that end of the hall and told the boys to go in. "Find a bed and get some shut eye, lads. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day." He cackled, then, leaving the lantern with the boys, left and locked the door behind him.

The boys huddled around Wiggins, unsure of their whereabouts and what to do next. Putting on a brave face, Wiggins picked up the lantern and held it up to illuminate the area. What the light revealed made his mouth drop open. Fifty or more boys, all his own age or younger were asleep their beds - if they could be called such. They were little more than boxes, lined with mattresses of hay. Most beds had two boys in it, sharing one thin blanket between them.

"Oy, put that light out," a weary voice mumbled.

_I know that voice!_ Wiggins raised the lantern higher and took a few steps forward. "Bidder? Austin Bidder?"

Bidder, their spunky dark-haired Welsh fighter, now looked back on him with a thin, pale face. But his eyes lit up at Wiggins' voice, and he jumped out of his bed. "Wiggins? Cor blimey, is it really you? Kelly, wake up! It's Wiggins - and the rest of the lads!"

"Kelly! You're both here?" Wiggins and the others came forward to greet their friends.

Bidder's smile quickly faded, and he sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. "I'm sorry you're here, Wiggins. You too, lads," he said in a weary voice, nodding to the rest. "Wheeler Mill…it's hell on earth, right and certain."

"What is this place, Bidder?" Wiggins asked, lowering his voice.

Sean Kelly looked up from underneath his shock of flaming red hair, normally twinkling green eyes now sunken and dark. "It's a cotton mill. These blokes have been kidnapping lads like us - girls too - from all over the place. We work from early in the morning until very late. We only got back a few hours ago."

Wiggins' heart sunk even lower. He didn't know much about cotton mills, but he knew that they were hard places to work, and dangerous.

"We've been here for what would ye say, three days, Bidder?" Kelly asked.

Bidder rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. The days have started to run together. I'm so tired…"

Billy Gibson put a hand on Bidder's shoulder. "Don't worry, Bidder. Patrick got away, and I'm sure he's gone fer Mister Holmes by now. He'll find us."

"That's right," Wiggins said, his eyes lighting up. "If anyone can find us, Mister Holmes can."

"Keep it down, we're tryin' to sleep," a voice said irritably from another bed.

"Speakin' o' which, you'd better get some shuteye," Kelly said. "Ye need all the rest ye can get 'round here."

* * *

"And you were standing there?" Holmes pointed to a patch of pebble-strewn sand with his cane.

"Yes sir. We was throwing rocks." Patrick fell silent as the detective nodded.

Watson stood behind Patrick, his hands on the boy's shoulders, and watched as his friend bent double, peering at something on the ground.

"Here are your footprints, Patrick. Yes, you walked here…and here was the scuffle. You ran. Ah. The tall, long-legged chap. He chased after you…" He pointed a long finger at a path invisible to Watson's eye, towards Upper Thames Street.

Watson watched the grey eyes, now steely, follow an invisible path up the beach, and past himself and Gibson, finally coming to rest on the city beyond. He followed what the doctor assumed were more footprints, past him, suddenly veering. "The boys were dragged this way…"

Watson came closer, carefully treading in Holmes' footprints to avoid damaging any vital clues. Suddenly, peering at the sand, he spied something. "Holmes?"

"What is it, Watson?" Holmes asked distractedly, walking backwards in the tracks of one of the kidnappers.

"There's some sort of rut here."

The sound of dashing sand, and Holmes was at his side. The detective's grey eyes glittered, and he squeezed Watson's shoulder with a gloved hand. "Excellent, Watson." He inspected the mark carefully, then darted about a meter to the right. "Here's another. Wagon wheels...wood rimmed and worn...and here are the hoof-marks. A large mare with a bent shoe." His eyes followed the tracks up the beach and towards London. Without a word, he shouldered his cane and strode off in a quick pace towards the street.

Beckoning to Gibson, Watson followed.

Once they hit the street, Holmes' pace slowed. He was following a near-invisible path of sand into the streets of London, but once he determined the direction, he could deduce where the wagon had headed. He only needed to determine if it went east toward Swandam Lane, or west towards Little Trinity Street.

The last few traces of sand he could see before it was lost among the other dirt and rubbish of the street led him west. He raced along the pavement, eyes scrutinizing every detail, every carriage, every window, every door, every _person_. He was looking for a large building, somewhere a wagon and several children could be kept without drawing attention.

At this time of morning, the streets were still fairly empty, so when he suddenly heard the uneven clip clop of a horse's hooves, the animal was easy to spot. Another block down, a hefty grey mare was walking unsteadily on one of its legs. _A large mare with a bent shoe… _Holmes watched as a man led her down a side street, patting her neck, until they had gone from view.

Watson and Gibson followed the detective at a quick pace as he jogged down the pavement, turning sharply at the corner where the mare had disappeared.

Holmes stopped at a pair of wooden double doors, the entrance to what looked like a warehouse. _Precisely the size building that would suit the kidnappers' needs. _He was about to check if they were locked when they suddenly swung open. A barrel-chested man in braces with thick eyebrows and a moustache stood there, looking surprised to see him. "What do you want?" he asked gruffly.

Brushing off the man's rudeness, Holmes said, "Ah, good afternoon. Might I ask if a wagon came through here recently, yesterday perhaps? I am checking on a shipment for a colleague of mine."

The man glared at Holmes through his bushy eyebrows. "No."

"'No' I may not ask, or 'no' a wagon hasn't come through?" Holmes pressed.

"You don't 'ave any business 'ere." The man growled and moved to push past the detective.

Holmes held his cane in such a way that blocked the man's path. "On the contrary," he said coldly. "I do. It is a simple question; have you or have you not seen a wagon come through here?"

"It's a simple answer, mister," the man replied, eyes narrowed. "Get out."

"Wotsa matter?" a voice came through the double doors.

The man glanced over his shoulder through the doorway. "Nothin'." He pushed roughly past Holmes to grab a small crate, and promptly turned his back on them and left, slamming the warehouse doors shut behind him. The distinctive sound of a lock clicking followed.

Holmes turned to look at Watson. "What an amiable person," he said dryly.

"Are you certain this is the right place?" Watson asked, watching Holmes jog from one end of the building to the other, looking for a window or alternative entrance.

"Yes," Holmes said.

"How can you be so sure?"

Holmes stopped in mid-stride and gave the doctor a pointed look. He then glanced at the building and came very close to Watson. "There was chloroform in that crate he took."

"What?" Watson whispered.

"We're not getting into that building. Come along, Gibson. Come, Watson. It is quite possible we are being watched. " He took the doctor's elbow and steered him around the corner. "That crate was from Merck, which is the largest chemical manufacturer in the world. One of their chief products is chloroform. Now tell me, Watson, what does a warehouse that stores textiles want with chloroform?"

* * *

"What did you find?" Christine asked, shutting the consulting room door behind her. Patrick Gibson was napping in her bed, and Watson had gone down to get a pot of tea.

"We know where they were taken, at least immediately after their capture." He smoothed a hand agitatedly over his hair. "But we need a warrant to get into that warehouse, and I doubt that Scotland Yard will issue me one on the pretense of missing street urchins." The last few words came out hotly, and he sighed angrily through his nose. He stuffed some tobacco in his pipe, but when he turned from the Persian slipper, he grew quiet.

Miss Andrews was standing halfway between the table and sofa, gazing out the window with a look of utter sadness on her features.

He gently placed his pipe on the mantle and made his way towards her. "Miss Andrews..."

She took his hands and gazed down at their long fingers. "Oh Mr. Holmes, what do we do?" she asked softly.

"Everything we can. I intend to break into that warehouse if I must. It will not be the first time I've broken the law."

A small smirk and a mischievious glitter in his eye caused her to smile, but it soon faded. "Those poor children...their poor mothers, they must be so worried. If I was one of their mother's, I..." she trailed off, shaking her head, and seated herself.

"If it was my son, I'd..." Christine trailed off, sighing heavily, and leaned her head on her hand. But a sudden motion from Mr. Holmes's head caused her to look at him. He was staring at her. A tiny smile whisked across his face, and his eyes glinted as they did when he had come up with something brilliant.

"If it was your son..." he echoed, and swiftly sat down in the chair next to her. "Miss Andrews, I have an idea. And you will carry out the plan."

* * *

_A/N:_

_**Sean Kelly and Austin Bidder: **__these__were two of the Irregulars' fellows who were mentioned missing in Chapter One._

_**Wheeler Mill sleeping arrangements: **__The scene where Wiggins first sees the boys' sleeping quarters was inspired by a scene from the 2002 version of Nicholas Nickleby, when Nicholas views a similar situation. It really is a well made film. If you haven't seen it, I suggest you do._

_**Braces: **__the British term for suspenders, in case you didn't know._

"_**What an amiable person." **__very similar to what he said concerning Dr. Grimmesby Roylott of Stoke Moran in SPEC. I just watched the Granada production with a friend, so this adventure was fresh in my mind._

_**Merck KGaA: **__one of the oldest companies in the world, which has been distributing various chemicals since the 1600s. I'm not sure if one of their chief exports was chloroform in the Victorian era, but I thought it was a good fit. I didn't want to just make up a new company. I try to make things as accurate as possible._


	5. Plans

Chapter Five: Plans

It was Friday morning, and Christine was preparing herself for Holmes' plan. Wearing her very best day dress and hat, she walked into the consulting room for the detective's approval.

"Well, what do you think?"

Holmes turned from his cane rack, and Christine could have sworn a slight blush crept into his cheeks for a moment. "That will do!" he said. He strode towards her, placing his Penang Lawyer walking stick on the table. He took her by the hand and drew her closer. "Yes, that will do very nicely."

"There was a loud "ahem" behind them, and they parted promptly to allow Mrs. Hudson to come between them. She collected the breakfast dishes, eyed them both, and departed.

Christine laughed embarrassedly as the landlady disappeared from view. "Well." She fixed her hat. "Shall we be off? Good thing I talked to Lestrade and was let off work today."

Holmes cleared his throat and nodded, retrieving his walking stick. "Yes, it was fortunate for us. I'm sure Mr. Emerson will be disappointed."

"Gregson would never have allowed it," Christine continued. "I think that man has it in for-wait." She turned on him. "What about Mr. Emerson?"

"You have your gloves?" Holmes asked from the hall.

"Yes, but -"

"The lace pair?

"Yes. Mr. Holmes, what did-"

"Hurry, or we may miss our opportunity." He took her elbow and steered her out the door. "Watson!"

"I'm ready, Holmes," the doctor said, coming down the stairs.

"Excellent. Not a moment to lose!"

* * *

"Holmes, what if someone tries to rob her? You should never have given her that fifty pound note." Watson bent forward to peer out the window of the cab, brushing shoulders with the detective.

"Have faith in the girl, Watson," Holmes replied with a soft smirk, catching the doctor's eye.

Watson frowned. "This has nothing to do with having faith in Miss Andrews, Holmes. It's _not_ having faith in those ruffians we encountered yesterday - and this is an awful part of town."

"She'll do splendidly. She's been in situations much more dangerous," the detective said, half to himself.

"Don't I know it, old fellow," Watson said heavily, leaning back in his seat.

"Ah, there she goes." Holmes said suddenly.

The doctor and the detective both watched as Miss Andrews crossed the street. They followed her movements as she went up to a newspaper seller, and after a moment to a barber that was sweeping out his front door. They talked for a moment, and then the barber pointed towards the warehouse - just where Holmes wanted him to. She nodded her head in thanks, and then briskly walked towards the warehouse.

Just before she reached the warehouse, she stole a fleeting glance at the four-wheeler in which Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were seated. A small, annoyed smile played across her face. _What was he getting at this morning with that Mr. Emerson business? I mean seriously. Is he...jealous? Oh for heaven's sake._ She reached the door to the warehouse. Fixing the string of pearls around her neck and putting on her best worried face, she rapped on the heavy wooden door.

She listened for a moment, and when she did not hear anything, she knocked again, more loudly.

"I'm comin'!" an irritated voice yelled, growing nearer every instant. "What do ya want, ya bloomin-oh!" The tall moustached man stopped short, biting his tongue at the sight of her. He snatched off his Irish cap. "Beg yer pardon, mum. I thought you was someone else. Can I help you?"

"I surely hope so, sir," Christine said, throwing a tremor into her voice. "I've been all up and down the street - I've asked the newspaperman and the barber, and so many others - and no one has been able to help me yet! I'm at my wit's end." She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "It's my son, you see. He's gone missing and I don't know where to find him. His father lets him run about with those little street boys, and I'm afraid they've done something to him. Oh, my poor little boy! He's been missing for three days now, and I don't know what else to do!" Christine could tell by the man's demeanor since her first mention of the word "son" that he was uneasy. "I've tried the police, but they've no idea where to even start looking. My husband said to try down here, by the docks, where my son said he's skipped stones before. You-you haven't seen any sign of my little boy, have you?"

"I'm sorry mum, but I haven't."

She whipped up some tears and buried her face in her handkerchief. "Oh, what am I to do?" she wailed. After wiping her eyes and sniffling a few times, she brought out her purse. "I'd happily offer a reward if anyone were to bring him back to me," she said, clasping it tightly. "Are you quite certain you haven't seen him? Or any other boys in this area?"

He shifted from one foot to the other, eyeing the purse. "No, mum. I'm sorry."

Christine let her shoulders droop and her lip tremble. She nodded. "I see. I'm so sorry for taking up your time. Thank you for your help, sir." She extended a lace-gloved hand, and he shook it. "If you _do_ hear anything, or if you happen to see him, will you please contact me?" She opened her purse and pulled out the 50-pound note while she pretended to search for her calling card. She couldn't help but notice how the man's eyes grew wide at the sight of it. She shifted a newspaper clipping and a few other notes and then pulled out a card with her name and the Baker Street address upon it. "Thank you again, Mr...?."

"Brewer, mum," he said. "Would you like me to call you a cab?"

"That'd be ever so kind."

Holmes watched as the man waved to a cab across the street, then helped Christine into it. The man watched the cab go, craning his neck as it turned around the corner, then all but ran back into the warehouse.

"He's scared, Watson," Holmes said, his sharp grey eyes following the man. "Street urchins mean nothing, but when a fine lady's son goes missing..." He exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "That heap burning coals on the entire operation."

* * *

Wiggins found himself roughly shaken awake.

"Get up, my lads!" the harsh voice of Finch struck his ears, and he wearily rolled off his cot. His life had always been hard back in London, but he could already tell this work was brutal. All boys and girls were awake before sunup, and worked until after sundown, with minimal breaks for scanty meals. Some of them had been here for months. He didn't know how they could bear it. He'd only been here two days, and he couldn't stand it.

Wiggins fell into place beside Kelly as they filed out the door. The girls met them in the hall, and they were led in two lines by the crow-lady, Mrs. Tern, and Finch to the so-called "dining hall" which consisted of no more than ten rough-hewn, wobbly tables and benches. They were fed a thin porridge in small wooden bowls and a cup of milk.

From there, they were all led barefoot across the hard misty ground to the mill itself. The rattling, tumbling, deafening noise of the cotton machines was easy to hear even from the dining hall. The monstrous contraptions took up most of the long building, spinning dust and fibers into the air. Any windows were high, out of reach, and closed. They were dirty and let in little sun, even in broad daylight.

"Who've we got today, Bidder?" Kelly yelled over the noise of the machinery, peering over his friend's shoulder.

They looked at the far end of the room to see a tall, sandy-haired man with round rimmed glasses was patrolling the aisles, hands behind his back. He held no cane.

Bidder sighed in relief and wiped his brow. "Martin! We can relax a little, Wiggins," Bidder yelled in his ear. "He's the nice one. Only one that cares a scrap about any of us, I think."

"All right!" Finch shouted, swinging his cane. "Get to it!"

They went to work immediately. Finch lingered in the room for the first twenty minutes to make sure everything was under control, then left, leaving only Martin and the children.

Wiggins stood between Gibson and a frail blond girl in from of the looms. He regarded the machine warily, but he couldn't hesitate for long, or else Finch might beat him. A carriage, run on iron wheels, zoomed back and forth on the loom, carrying a hundred spindles. They mended broken threads and replaced full bobbins with empty ones, amid the weaving, shifting frames. Some of the smallest children who could not reach the threads had to climb onto the machinery. He had tried to stop a younger girl from doing so yesterday, nearly screaming as he thought of his sisters back home, but Finch and caught him by his shirt collar and shook him soundly, half-carrying him back to his station.

Wiggins was relieved to see that this Martin was different than Finch. He kept a close eye on the small children especially, and whenever one would scramble underneath the machines to clean it of cotton fibers or retrieve a fallen spool, he would stand nearby and stoop to watch them until they had gotten out again. From time to time, he'd roll up a child's sleeve or tie back a girl's hair, with a very small, sad smile and gentle pat on the shoulder.

Around noon time, the man with the long scar, Greebe, came in with Mrs. Tern carrying baskets full of buttered oat cakes and cans of milk. They ate their dinner while working, with the oatcake in one hand. As Wiggins plucked cotton fibers out of his milk, his mind was whirring. He had to get home. Undoubtedly Mr. Holmes would be on his way, but his thoughts kept straying to his mother. She would be worried. And what if she didn't have enough food for the baby and his sisters? How long would he be here before someone came to his rescue?

What if someone never came?

The oatcake went down his throat in a hard lump, and he shook his head and pulled his cap down over his ears. Someone would come. And if not, he'd find a way out.

Around three in the afternoon, he began to get drowsy. He blinked rapidly and rubbed at his eyes to get rid of some cotton fluff. The dim lighting and the relentless standing was already tiring him. He shifted from one foot to the other, tapping his toes to keep himself alert.

Suddenly there was a shriek at the machine across the way, and several yells. Wiggins ran to see what the matter was, but by the time he could get a good view, the shriek had roared into a horrible scream. Then there was a noise that made his hair stand on end; it barely sounded human.

All the machines suddenly ground to a stop, and the room fell silent. Only the sound of sobbing could be heard as a small boy stumbled into the aisle.

Half of his hand was gone.

Blood was pouring everywhere, staining the floor and his clothes, and his eyes were wide until they rolled back into his head and he collapsed.

Martin came running down the aisle and fell to his knees before the child, pulling a rag out of his pocket. He tied it as tightly as he could around the boy's bleeding forearm. "Greebe, Greebe! Quickly! Help me get this poor child out of here." The man with the scar came dashing in lifted the boy in his arms on the blood. As he and Martin rushed from the room, the latter called, "Kite, get this blood cleaned up!"

The large man came lumbering into view, a bucket of water and rags in his hands. As he mopped up the blood, the blond girl next to Wiggins began to cry uncontrollably.

Kite glared in her direction. "Shut your noise and get back to work!" he bellowed. When she only cried harder, he gripped his cane and strode over to her.

At the last moment, Wiggins pulled her against him, shielding her. "Leave her alone. She didn't do nothin'!"

"I wasn't talking to you, boy!"

"You are now!" Wiggins snapped. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see Bidder, Simmons, Kelly, Holt and Pilgrim gathering, preparing to defend him should the need arise.

"You little urchin. You need to be taught some manners!" Kite raised his cane, and Wiggins held the girl closer to protect her. The blow never fell; Martin appeared and tore the cane from Kite's grasp.

Furiously, he broke the instrument over his knee and hurled the shards to the ground. "What do you think you're doing?" he yelled. "For God's sake! Don't you have something better to do than bully poor defenseless children? You-"

_"What _is the meaning of this."

All fell silent and heads turned towards the dry gravelly voice, where a hunchbacked elderly man stood. He peered around the room, and tightened his long fingers around the head of his silver cane.

Martin and Kite straightened visibly. "Mr. Rook."

"I am waiting." The man said, jaw tightening.

"Martin is interfering with my discipline methods!"

"Discipline!" Martin shouted. "You were about to beat these poor children for doing nothing more than feeling sympathy for that wounded boy!"

"Wounded boy? What wounded boy."

"Jacobson, sir. Caught his hand in the machine. I was just on my way to report it."

"Ah." Rook picked up his cane and began to pace the aisle, looking around at each of the children. "Now you see," he said loudly so all the children could hear, "What carelessness can do to you. Laziness. It was that boy's own fault that he was injured. Concentration!" he tapped the floor harshly. "Vigilance! Obedience! Or else you will end up like him." He pointed with his cane at the blood stains.

He turned and began to make his way back towards Martin and Kite.

Wiggins felt anger well up inside at the old man, who was obviously the brains behind the operation. _If he hadn't been brought here in the first place, that would never have happened! It's your fault!_ He glared at him as he passed. To his surprise, the man caught his look and turned on him. _"What _are you looking at, child?"

"Nothin'," he said through gritted teeth. _"Sir."_

Rook narrowed his eyes, staring down his long nose. "Keep an eye on this one. He has a defiant streak in him." He straightened up. "Kite, Martin. I wish to speak with you. The rest of you," he called over his shoulder, "Return to your work! Remember, vigilance!"

Wiggins scowled after the closed door. "Soddy old geezer." He let go of the girl. "You okay?"

She sniffled. "Thanks."

"We lot got to stick together," he managed to say before the machines came back on. Wiggins and his other fellows ate their supper that night in silence. From time to time, Wiggins would look around at the crowded tables.

He was surrounded by children that were weak, frail and exhausted. Bidder said some of the children had been here as long as two months, doing this kind of work day in and day out. There had been several injuries like the one earlier, and one or two had even been killed.

Most of the children were younger than he was. They were never paid, and never received word from home. Those who dared ask were sent to bed without supper.

Some of the children had worked in factories in London, but they'd been paid for their time. It was bad, they'd said, but not as bad as this. This was inhuman. He just didn't understand. What were they trying to accomplish?

* * *

It was just after tea when Dr. Watson came walking into the consulting room. "A telegram has just arrived." He placed the message in his friend's open palm. "It's addressed to _Mrs_. Andrews."

Christine put down her book and looked at the detective expectantly.

He read, "Too risky at Baker Street….Come to warehouse…Bring husband and money. Brewer."

"He's called for your husband as well," Watson remarked. "Decent enough man not to let a lady come to that part of town at night alone."

"Which also means it might be dangerous." Holmes said. He pursed his lips and got to his feet. "Watson," he said, with a grim look at the doctor, "Bring the gun."

* * *

_A/N_

_Oh, I'm SO sorry it's taken me this long to update this. I was uninspired for a long time, but lately I've been really trying hard to conquer that writer's block. I've been watching some more Sherlock Holmes and listening to some audiobooks, and I just decided to get it done!_

_Consider it my Happy Halloween present. Or, since my birthday is coming up, my birthday gift to you! I don't think they'll be too many more chapters to the story, so I'll try to work hard the next few weeks to complete the story._

_Looking forward to your reviews, hope I haven't lost too many of you! To those of you who are following me, thanks for your patience!_

**_Wheeler Mill names: _**_See if you can guess the pattern with their names! There's a virtual cookie in it for you!_


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